So Spoke the Idol God
by Zeitgeist84
Summary: The Sorting Hat was feeling fickle the night of the 1991 sorting, and that night saw the trio sent to different houses. In late December, 2001, a prophecy is stolen from the Department of Mysteries, and Junior Unspeakable Granger is dispatched to find the thief. What she uncovers leads herself, Harry, and Ron, on a globetrotting journey to stop an evil once thought dead.
1. Hermione: Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I barely own my house, what makes you think I own this?

* * *

So Spoke the Idol God

Prologue

* * *

21 December, 2001  
English Ministry of Magic - Department of Mysteries  
London, UK

* * *

Her navy blue robes were stiflingly warm and her mask uncomfortable against her cheeks, but Number Fourteen had long since become used to it in the two years since she had been accepted into the secretive coterie that lurked round the appropriately named Department of Mysteries. Usually, she was out and about, milling from one cavernous room to the next, studying the nature of magic and all its many secrets, but not today, however. Today, she was seated across a steel table from her boss, wearing a carved ivory mask in the likeness of the goddess Athena, for whom she was named. It was the only indication that she was a woman behind the rather formless cut of her robes.

"Fourteen," the woman said, voice masked to sound toneless and androgynous, "do you know why you are here?"

Fourteen raised an eyebrow underneath her own, uncarved mask. "No, ma'am. Should I?" Her voice sounded as toneless as her superior's.

"Perhaps," came the answer, but the woman continued no further. Instead, she opted to lean forward and rest her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers beneath Athena's nose. Fourteen resisted the urge to scoff, nothing annoyed her more than people being purposefully obtuse, but it was the sort of rub she had come to accept from the Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries.

Their staring contest continued for some moments longer before her boss recoiled some, apparently having come to a conclusion:

"It looks as though you actually do _not_ know why you are here."

Fourteen once again resisted an urge to scoff, instead, she choose to respond more tactfully: "No, ma'am, no I do not."

The other woman sighed, and Fourteen once again raised a brow despite knowing her boss could not see it. It shocked her somewhat, Fourteen's boss wasn't a woman to display her emotions so casually:

"Three nights ago, after hours," the woman started, "we had a break-in."

To say that was a surprise was an understatement; the Department of Mysteries was, like the lower tiers of Gringotts bank, supposed to be impregnable. No one got in unless they were allowed in:

"Where? Why? _How_?" Fourteen asked, questions slipping out of her mouth in a rush. Her superior held up a gloved hand in a gesture for silence:

"We currently do not know _how_ the theft occurred, but it appears the thieves wanted into the Hall of Prophecies," she paused to let that information sink in. "You understand the magnitude of that, do you not?"

"Did any of the charms determine the identity of the thief?"

"Unfortunately, no. All our surveillance charms had somehow been disabled."

"How?"

"Either by an extensive knowledge of the Department of Mysteries, or they had help from the inside. Either way, it does not bode well."

"But if a prophecy was stolen, then we can narrow down those who might have taken it."

Fourteen's boss nodded. "Correct. It is a well-known fact that the only people who can remove a prophecy, are those that the selfsame prophecy concerns. Ordinarily, there wouldn't be a problem with someone retrieving their prophecy. If they know about it, and want it, they can come take it, provided an Unspeakable retrieves it for them."

Fourteen nodded along: it was grossly oversimplified, but mostly correct. The common wizard likely didn't know if any prophecies concerned them, and the Unspeakables did little policing of the predictions, so it was very rare for wizards or witches to retrieve their prophecies at all. At this point, there were so many prophecies in that Hall, it would be difficult for even an Unspeakable to determine if there were any prophecies concerning _them_.

"But to come into the Department of Mysteries after hours, with no guide... there is much down here that the uninitiated should not be privy to. And the thief needs to be corralled so that we may perform a memory charm upon them before they divulge any state secrets."

"I understand, ma'am, but why tell me this?" Questioned Fourteen, still somewhat confused as to her role in all this.

The other woman leaned forward once more. "This particular prophecy had four recipients. One of whom is dead."

"And the other three?"

"Alive and well, from the looks of it."

"Who are they?"

"The Deceased: Riddle Jr., Tom Marvolo, better known as Lord Voldemort," Fourteen stifled a gasp at how casually her superior dropped the defeated Dark Lord's name. "Alive and possible suspects: Potter, Harry James, the Boy-Who-Lived; Weasley, Ronald Bilius, Keeper for Chudley Cannons," the woman continued over Fourteen's bemusement: Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley had little connection to one another at all, "and _Granger_ , Hermione Jean."

Fourteen's brows knotted together. "I'm sorry?" She said.

"You heard me perfectly, Fourteen."

The silence that fell between the two seemed to stretch into a chasm, growing longer and longer, until the woman breached the gap with a few short words:

"Do you understand why you're here _now_ , Fourteen?"

Fourteen swallowed, the full weight of the unspoken accusation settled on her shoulders. "Yes ma'am, yes I do."

Her boss tossed her two files, one on Potter and one on Weasley. "See to it that this case is concluded swiftly, Fourteen. You are granted permission to use force, if necessary. You have been most impressive in previous tasks I have given you. I trust you will not be another disappointment."

"No ma'am, I won't."

"Good. Now run along; I'm giving you four days off from active duty and I've taken the liberty of setting up a meeting between you and Mr. Potter tonight at 5 PM, St. Mungo's. How you reach Mr. Weasley, however, is up to you. Enjoy your stay in hospital."

With that, she waved her arm in shooing gesture, and not one to question orders, Fourteen swept out of the office quickly. She left the Ministry of Magic swiftly by a Floo Pit connected only to the Department of Mysteries and stepped out into her large, but empty, flat. Fourteen dropped the files on her living room coffee table and trod to the washroom and only slipped off her mask once she was encased in the sanctity of four cream-coloured walls.

Hazel eyes and a nearly matching shade of thick hair combined with the pale skin of a lifelong scholar stared back at her. Hermione Granger sighed and shrugged off her thick robes, and tossed it haphazardly on the towel rack as she struggled to comprehend what had just happened: she was in a prophecy with _Harry Potter_? _And_ Ronald Weasley? That wasn't even mentioning the obvious figure of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Hermione laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Really? Her? Ronald Weasley? _Harry Potter_? It was all too ridiculous. Beyond the times she was assigned to work with him every once in a while during Care of Magical Creatures and Charms at Hogwarts, Hermione had never spoken more than ten sentences to Harry Potter. And the only thing she remembered Ron for was his tendency to insult her First Year, before he had moved on and started focusing on Quidditch, a passion he was now making thousands of galleons off of.

She couldn't know them any less even if she tried.

But now was no time to get caught up in the sheer madness of it. Hermione checked her wristwatch, a battered old thing gifted on her tenth birthday from her mother. _13:31_ , it read. Cursing her luck, Hermione realized she had less than four hours to prepare for her appointment with Harry Potter. And so, after changing into comfortable clothes, she went back out to the large living room, past the couches and wood walls with one unfinished side of red brick, into the homely kitchen that again felt far too large for a terrible cook such as she.

Nevertheless, she wasn't here for unsatisfying repast, and instead headed straight for the coffee machine Terry Boot had thought so novel to give her as a housewarming present a year earlier.

Quickly making a pot, Hermione returned to the coffee table and opened up the first of the two files, eyes lingering for a moment on the photo of black-haired man with bright green eyes stuck to the top of the folder.

* * *

Some hours later, Hermione found herself, dressed in her best robes, seated on a fine leather bench inside a small, decorative room, inconspicuously nestled in the corner of the Spell-induced brain damage ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. There was relatively light foot-traffic to come through this area of the hospital: there were few accidental spell cases serious enough to affect brain function on the daily, and even fewer wizards to seek out the particular service Potter supplied. Muggles had only accepted the science a scant few years ago; Hermione was certain it would be long before Magicals did the same.

Hermione took stock of the room around her, and had to admit, Harry Potter did have a sense of style. The walls were lined with elegant bookshelves, decorated with fine leaves of gold that wreathed around the dark wood. Numerous texts lined the walls, from medical treatises to _Treasure Island._ The floors were a similar dark wood, sometimes covered in fancy oriental rugs, distinguishing the waiting room from the soulless white tile elsewhere in the hospital. Cream colored walls glowed orange at the merrily-dancing flames of the fireplace, ensconced in one curving corner of the room. Hermione doubted that the hospital had paid for the luxury of the office, so she had to assume much of this came out Potter's paycheck.

 _Though_ , she supposed, _the galleons for this might not be much an issue for him, assuming the rumours of his wealth aren't entirely exaggerated_. Harry Potter: the eligible bachelor with a strong wallet and a soft head, or that was the way the _Prophet_ was content to put it. Somehow, Hermione doubted the mainstream narrative.

After studying both Weasley's and Potter's files, she came out sure that the Boy-Who-Lived was the thief. Weasley was, frankly, too unskilled to pull off a theft of that caliber, and he would not have had interest enough to look for it. Potter, on the other hand, was well-known to collect any and all information concerning Voldemort, and he was connected to any number of people who might have known there was a prophecy concerning the deposed Dark Lord lurking in the Department of Mysteries.

What bothered Hermione, however, was that no one told Harry he could merely have _asked_ for the prophecy and it would be delivered to him by an Unspeakable such as herself. So maybe he wasn't as smart as she feared.

 _Oh, hell, I'm thinking in circles and getting nowhere_.

"Miss Granger?" Asked a voice that broke Hermione from her reverie; she turned her head to find the receptionist, a vivacious middle-aged woman dressed in lime green robes, smiling at her from behind her carved wooden desk. "Healer Potter will see you now."

Ignoring the pit of nerves her stomach had become, Hermione nodded swiftly. "Thank you. Shall I just go in?"

"Yes, ma'am, just beyond that door there," the healer pointed at a heavy oak doorway that curved into some sort of oblong oval, reminding Hermione rather starkly of entryway doors to medieval castles.

Shaking the thought from her head, Hermione stepped up, grasped the handle, and pushed the door into an impossibly spacious room. She looked around, spotting more bookshelves lined with more texts, the same dark floors and Persian rug ensemble, an enormous carved desk placed centrally, but to south of the room. The true centerpiece of the room were two couches, both armchairs, facing each other over an elegant carved coffee table and in the light of false windows, magically charmed to give a panoramic view of London. There, by the chairs, a well-dressed man in a dark blue, three-piece muggle suit awaited her with a crooked smile:

"Miss Granger," Healer Potter greeted brightly. His baritone was an odd, attractive mixture of Londoner and Mackem. "It's been a long time!"

Hermione wandlessly silenced the door, so Potter's secretary couldn't hear her boss when Hermione eventually immobilized him and attempted to discern his whereabouts three nights earlier.

Turning back to the Healer, she observed him: Harry Potter looked an entirely different person now. Three years wasn't a very long time, particularly for people as long-lived as they were, a wizard at sixty-five could look younger than a muggle at forty, and yet Harry Potter seemed to have aged quite a bit in these three short years. Not enough to warrant suspicion of an imposter, but his stubble and neatly swept hair (antithetical to the typically messy-haired Harry Potter of her schooldays) made Hermione feel distinctly like a teenager facing a grown man.

However, she squashed the thought before it could fester. "Yes it has. Three years now, is it?"

Potter made a show of checking his wristwatch. "Somewhere thereabouts," he answered with that charming grin of his, before gesturing at the armchair opposite him: "Have a seat." Hermione complied, seating herself primly on the opposite couch and folding her arms over her lap. She coughed politely, signifying she was ready to begin.

Potter frowned and wet his lips with his tongue: "I'm afraid to say, given our prior acquaintance, some might find me offering you therapy to be... inappropriate. Myself included." Hermione had a feeling Potter might use this as an excuse to worm his way out of seeing her, but she wouldn't be fooled:

"Yes, in the muggle world, it would be inappropriate," she countered softly, so as not to sound overly-aggressive. "However, we are a small enough community that we must sometimes skirt the ethical boundaries that larger muggle communities enjoy."

"Hm. That's true; however, I am only just getting my start: you'd still be considered one of my very earliest clients. If that's uncomfortable, you could very well turn to my superior, Healer Rotaru."

"I would prefer you to Healer Rotaru," Hermione answered quickly, in a tone that brooked no argument. Potter merely nodded; his eyes turned to a neatly clipped-together stack of parchment paper, fine-print writing on it, and an inkwell with a fine, green-feathered quill dipped within it.

"What's this?" Hermione asked, leaning over to make out some of the tiny, beetle-black words on the yellowing paper.

"Informed consent," said the Healer. "If I'm to take you on as a client, we have to set some ground rules. I'll need you to read it, and sign. There'll be more to sign after the initial consultation, but we can save that for the end of session."

Hermione quirked a brow, surprised by the Healer's sober mannerisms; Harry Potter had never been a party animal, by any means, but he wasn't the type to take work too seriously. It surprised her, but, then again, it wasn't the first time. Potter had shocked magical Britons everywhere when he rejected a high-paying Seeker contract from Whiston Wanderers, in favor of an internship at St. Mungo's psychiatric division, a division that previously consisted of one man, Healer Agamemnon Rotaru, widely considered to be a crackpot.

Wizards didn't think much of psychiatry, Hermione knew. Logic wasn't the strong suit of this society: every worthwhile problem could be solved by magic; if it couldn't, then it couldn't be solved or wasn't worth solving at all. Most people took Harry Potter's choice as a youthful flight of fancy, something frivolous to waste his time with until he came back in from the cold and took on a _proper_ trade.

After three-and-a-half years, people were starting to realize Potter was quite serious about his chosen profession.

As she finished Potter's 'rules', Hermione retrieved the quill from its well, letting the excess black liquid drip off before she signed the line at the bottom and returned the paper to the Healer with a smile.

Potter looked over the paper, and when he was satisfied, he conjured a pen and paper pad from thin air, both of which landed neatly in his hands, and Hermione couldn't help but take notice of it: he wore a muggle suit instead of robes and used pen and pad rather than quill and parchment. _What does that say about the man?_ She wondered silently.

"Now, before we start," Healer Potter was saying, "I will be writing down the things we discuss, for my own sake, that I might be able to determine a proper method of treatment. No one else will see these notes; you've absolutely nothing to worry about. Is that alright?"

"Yes," Hermione said breathlessly, eager to be finished with this distasteful task. "Do you mind terribly if I stand up and walk around? Sometimes it's difficult for me to sit still in one place for an hour."

"By all means," answered the healer.

"Thank you," Hermione said, to a nod from the black-haired man. Standing up, she paced a bit to one of the bookshelf-lined walls of Potter's office and resisted smiling at a dog-eared copy of _Ulysses_. It seemed the Healer was a reader, and all the books weren't just for show.

"So," Potter began from his chair. "Why are you here?"

"What?" asked Hermione, distracted by the books.

Smiling slightly, the Healer repeated himself. "Why are you here, Miss Granger? Why did you feel the need to schedule an appointment with me?"

"I've been..." Hermione trailed off, thinking up of an excuse. "I've been feeling anxious lately."

"Anxious?" Potter asked, green eyes sparkling underneath his reading glasses.

"Yes. Though I suppose I've always been a little anxious," Hermione faked a nervous little laugh as Potter wrote something down on his pad. "I've been feeling more anxious than usual lately."

"Is there any particular reason for that?"

"Well, yes. You see, there's been a problem at work," she said evasively, which Potter seemed to pick up on:

"I see. How did you cope with anxiety in the past?"

"I read," she answered, "which I see you do a lot of, too. I don't remember you being much of a reader in the past."

Potter frowned. "I wasn't. But when you spend three years doing nothing but reading medical texts, fiction is a good escape. But, as for you, did you have any other ways of dealing with your anxiety?"

"Magic itself was a stress-reliever; if I felt frazzled, I'd learn a new spell. Working at it until you get it _just_ perfect... it's the best way to get your mind off something. Most of what I know now is probably due to that habit."

"Have you ever seen a professional for your anxiety? Prior to me?"

"I haven't."

"Ever considered seeing one before me?"

"No."

"What's changed? Why isn't it working now?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, there _must_ be a reason you're here, talking to me, instead of at home with a book or a wand."

"Because, you see, something was taken from my work. And my boss has been all over me to get it back."

"Something? I take it this 'something' was important."

"It's not that the _something_ was particularly important; it's that it was _stolen_ from us," Hermione arched an eyebrow, hoping to see some semblance of recognition in Potter's eyes, but he remained unruffled as he bent over to jot another sentence down on his notepad.

"And have you been tasked to retrieve this item?"

"No. But I've been tasked to find the person who took it."

"Why not leave it to Magical Law Enforcement? The Ministry would be your best bet."

"I..." Hermione trailed off. "I work for the Ministry."

It was the Healer's turn to quirk a brow, pen moving furiously on paper. "Ah," he said. "I see. Are you anxious because you can't find the person who took it?"

"No, Healer Potter. Quite the opposite, in fact. I've known the culprit for several days now," Hermione lied easily, not wanting to give away she'd only been on the trail for a scant few hours.

"Sounds like it should be easy. What's stopping you?"

"I had to be sure."

"How do you plan to go about that?"

"Barge into his office," Hermione said, still examining the books, "stun him, and force the truth out of him." She turned around and met Potter's eyes, wand in hand. His eyes widened, he had the time to stand but not to sidestep her " _Petrificus totalis_ ," and fell to the floor rigid as a board. Hermione kept her wand at the ready, pointed at the downed man, whose eyes roved around the room in a mixture of confusion and anger.

"Don't worry, Harry," Hermione said, using the Healer's given name for the first time, as she knelt by him, "it pains me to have lied to you, but this never was about anxiety," she paused, as the wand raised once more. "I don't plan on harming you. Like I said, I just wanted to be sure. _Legilimens_!"

It wasn't a much advertised fact about her, but Hermione was an exceptional mind-reader, particularly for her young age. She supposed it had to do with her memories of her school days. All those people saying nice things to her while thinking the most vile things in their heads. Knowing what they _really_ thought had spurred Hermione on to try and learn the art of legilimency. Though she had never been particularly accomplished with the spell at Hogwarts, that changed upon joining the Department of Mysteries, where the skill was cultivated under the tutelage of several Unspeakables.

So, it was with deft skill that Hermione waded through the ocean of Harry Potter's memories. She saw blurry shapes and dark, enclosed spaces, then the bright halls of Hogwarts. There Harry went about his days, a charming little preteen who was surprised to be sorted into Slytherin.

 _Not even close_ , thought Hermione as she left one memory and moved further up the river, past the Yule Ball he took Susan Bones to and the graduation he barely paid attention to, to three nights earlier.

He sat in his office, right at the time he _should_ have been taking the prophecy off a shelf in the Hall of Prophecies, looking lost and drained as he worked. Hermione pictured a quill ripping through paper and myopic eyes scanning a solid tome, unseeing. His vest was unbuttoned and his tie loosened, hair sticking out at every end, looking every bit as disheveled as the man Hermione had been facing was immaculate. Harry turned a page, and a knock came at the heavy, wooden doors. He looked up, and smiled softly as the door opened.

But before Hermione could see who entered, a large steel door seemed to pass right in front of her and bar her from the rest of the memory. Seconds after, she felt a horrible sensation emanating inward from the extremities, as though she were being pulled apart on the rack and was forcibly dragged under a surging tide. The water rushed up and she closed her eyes instinctively. And when they opened, Hermione was no longer in Potter's memories; all she could see were his hard, glittering eyes, so different from wearied, soul-sick look she'd seen in the memory.

A pressure came at her throat, and Hermione didn't need to be a genius to realize that was Potter's wand:

"Who are you?" He growled lowly.

"Hermione Granger," she returned, somewhat appalled at the man's apparent stupidity.

"Hermione Granger doesn't have the balls to attack a man in his own office."

The Unspeakable didn't dare speak any further, not until she had the upper-hand, which she deftly set about regaining with a blasting hex. Potter was sent flying off her and crashed into one of his armchairs, toppling over in a boneless heap. Hermione shot to her feet, raising her wand, and intoning "Incarcerous," as calmly as she could. She wasn't particularly surprised so much as annoyed when Potter's wand arm shot out with a cutting curse that ripped right through the ropes headed for him and sailed straight for her.

Hermione threw up a shield charm and shot off a stinging hex and disarming charm in succession, the first of which lightly smarted at Potter's hand to lay it low for the second. The Healer's wand flew out of his grasp, and he deftly dodged more of Hermione's ropes, before standing at full height. Potter drew himself back and his nostrils flared, reminding Hermione of an enraged bull for one amusing moment.

That was before he completed the image, and charged.

Hermione's eyes widened as she tried to put some distance between herself and the Healer with the three wildly shot stunners, but Potter quickly bore down on her. Recalling dueling classes toward the end of their tenure at Hogwarts, she tried to think of what the healer might be planning. She had beaten him almost every time they dueled, but Potter had never come this close: he was always a distance caster, electing to stay as far from the enemy as possible. Either three years of psychiatry had dulled his dueling senses, or he had something up his sleeve.

The debate was answered when Potter seemed to phase in front of Hermione before she even realized it, grabbed her wand arm, jerking her forward whilst simultaneously pushing her backward with a strong arm across the collarbone. Before she knew it, Hermione was on her back, disarmed the old-fashioned way.

Privately, she was impressed: she'd never met a wizard more dangerous without a wand than with one.

Hermione looked up to find both her wand and Potter's pointed at her. "Duels are hell of a lot different when you can put your hands on the other person," he growled.

"Judo?" She asked unnecessarily, the painful landing on her back was more than enough information for her to know.

"Not exactly. But it is the last thing a duelist would expect," Potter replied.

"Well, it sure got me," commented Hermione idly, bemused at how surreal this situation had become.

He cracked a small smile. "That was the intention. Now, may I ask why you were invading my mind, Ms Granger? Does it have something to do with this thief of yours?"

"As a matter of fact, it does," replied Hermione, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead under a messy fringe of hair. She dared not even wonder what eldritch abomination her hair must have become over the course of their fight.

"You think I'm the thief," replied the Healer, amused and incredulous at once.

"Are you saying you're not?"

"I don't even know _what_ was stolen."

She cast a wary glance at the wands. "That is not the action of innocent man."

"It is when a madwoman charges into his office trying to mind-rape him."

The Unspeakable winced at the man's choice of words.

"Again. What, _exactly_ , was stolen?"

"The prophecy."

"What prophecy?"

"Your prophecy."

"I have a prophecy?"

"Don't play dumb."

"I'm not," Potter answered, looking earnest, "I'm just a bit surprised, is all," he paused. "So... a prophecy."

"That's what I said, don't wear it out."

"That would make you..." He trailed off.

Hermione could not have answered even if she wanted to. Unfortunately, her silence only confirmed Potter's suspicions. "Well, regardless," he began, taking in the revelation that Hermione Granger was an Unspeakable with surprising grace, "I can't have been the only one this prophecy was about, can I? Because I swear I haven't taken it."

The Unspeakable nearly snorted. He could swear up and down all night, it wouldn't make any difference:

"There are others, but this is a bit of a special case."

"How so?"

"Three others. One is dead, one is far too stupid to have pulled off that kind of theft. And the last, well... she's me. And I _know_ I haven't taken it."

That stopped Potter dead. "You?"

"I know," Hermione chanced a tentative smile, "I had much the same reaction as well."

"Who are the others?"

"Well there's Ronald Weasley..."

Potter blinked. "You and Ronald Weasley," he drawled. Hermione hissed at his use of the man's name. "Right," continued the healer over her, "I don't believe you."

"What? Why?"

"Why? Are you really asking me why?"

"Yes, yes I am."

Potter gave a dull, flummoxed expression, as though he hadn't expected Hermione to question him. "Why? Because it's _ridiculous_. We haven't seen each other in years, and even then, we were hardly friends, and now you're to tell me I'm in a prophecy with you and Ron-bloody-Weasley, Quidditch Keeper?"

Perhaps he really _didn't_ take it. Which made sense when Hermione took what she saw in Potter's mind. The night of the break-in, at the very time the security charms had shut off, it seemed as though Potter was working on

"You may think it ridiculous," countered the brunette, "but it's the truth."

"Got any proof?"

"My flat," Hermione answered quickly, remembering the files she had been given on Potter and Weasley. One of them had the details of the theft, official Ministry seal and all.

"Ha-ha," laughed Potter in the world's most unamused manner. "That's not happening."

"I'm not going to lead you into a trap."

"Well, now that you've said it, I feel _very_ reassured."

"I swear I won't."

"You can swear up and down all night, it won't make any difference," said Potter snidely, and Hermione outright laughed at that. "What?" he asked, voice dropping low and growly and what he apparently thought was very threatening.

"No, no, it's nothing," Hermione said, vainly trying to smooth her expression. "I have files that will prove I'm telling the truth," Potter remained stubborn and silent. It was just too much for Hermione, so she crossed her arms underneath him and huffed. "Oh, _honestly_! What will it take for you to believe me?"

Harry watched her, and Hermione's annoyance grew. Here she was, trying to offer him an olive branch, and suddenly he decided to become the world's most taciturn shrink. _Fine_ , she thought, _if he doesn't want to give any demands, then I'll do it for him!_

"Do you want to hold onto my wand?"

Potter ran a hand through his black mane of hair, and grunted. "It's a start," he said, and his eyes glowed like newly cut emeralds. Suddenly, he paused, and asked a question: "Who's the last?"

"What?"

"The last person the prophecy was intended for. You said you, Weasley, and myself, but you mentioned a fourth person who's dead."

"Oh, well... uh... it's..." Hermione stalled, trying to think of the most appropriate of the previous Dark Lord's many nicknames. "It was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Potter immediately drew off her. "Voldemort?" He asked quietly, and shocked Hermione with his brazenness, much as Athena had done. He stood off her, giving the Unspeakable some room to breathe and readjust as Potter went to the windows and observed the city skyline, both his wand and hers in either hand. For some time, he stared out the window and Hermione stared at his back. And when the silence had gone on far too long, Hermione spoke:

"Potter?" she asked, moving slowly toward him to tap his shoulder.

He turned the instant she did. "You will take me to your evidence. I want to see it with my own eyes."

What? That was it? Mention a dead Dark Lord's name and suddenly Potter believed her? "Really now? No trust issues?" Hermione asked, furiously pushing back the mocking smile that threatened to worm its way onto her face.

"You were known for many things at Hogwarts. I suppose being a liar wasn't one of them," he said, "then again, you weren't known for unprovoked attacks either."

"I'd hardly call them _unprovoked_ ," Hermione muttered, more to herself than Potter.

"Besides," he continued over her, "while you're undoubtedly much cleverer than I, we've just proved I can beat you in a duel with no preparation. If worse comes to worse, I'll do it again."

If there was one thing Hermione didn't approve of, it was cockiness. But she didn't have the time or luxury to reprimand the man for it; after all, she had lied to get into his office and attacked him while doing so. _If anyone ought to be criticized for their hubris, it should be me,_ she thought.

Potter grinned lightly and raised a hand, as though offering it to her. Caught up in her own thoughts, Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion, until she looked down and saw he was offering her wand back. Privately, she was surprised that Potter would be trusting enough to grant her a possible weapon, even if he was confident that he could beat her in another duel, but Hermione had no intention of looking this particular gift horse in the mouth. Instead, she snatched the thin piece of wood from his hands and spoke:

"How should we leave?"

"We have to leave separately. I don't want to give the wrong impression..." he began.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"I mean, it's not exactly proper form for a Healer to accompany a client anywhere outside of hospital, especially together," he said somewhat sheepishly, and Hermione snorted a short laugh.

"I wouldn't call myself a client," she reassured, amused.

Potter stared, stone-faced. "That's not what my receptionist thinks. Nor my boss."

"Alright," Hermione threw her arms up in exasperation, "I'll meet you outside, and we can go together from there. Where do you want to rendezvous?"

"There's a Tesco right down the street. Wait in there, do some shopping, or whatever, I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes."

Hermione gave Potter a perfectly deadpan look. "You want me to go and wait for you in a Tesco. Dressed like this," she pointed down at her robes, picked out specifically because she wanted to avoid odd stares at the hospital.

"So?" Potter shrugged. "You're a clever girl, transfigure it."

"Honestly!" huffed Hermione, crossing her arms.

"Hey, if you didn't want to do it, you shouldn't have charged into my office with no evidence," the black-haired healer replied, wagging a finger mere inches from Hermione's face. She never had the urge to punch someone before, but Hermione finally understood the feeling when Potter grinned and began shooing her out of his office.

"You had better show," the Unspeakable ordered, realizing she sounded like a bossy little child. "If I don't see you in fifteen minutes, I'll come back here and so help me your head will roll, judo or not."

"Ditto to you. If I don't find you at that Tesco in fifteen minutes, I'm reporting you to the Aurors," it was a lot less outwardly threatening than Hermione's own, but no less effective.

Hermione huffed once more and strode out of the office, completely ignoring Potter's receptionists cries about an unpaid bill. In the distance, as she approached the lift, she heard Potter say to cancel the bill:

"I did the assessment pro bono," he said as Hermione stepped through the doorway, "she won't be coming ba..."

The lift doors shut.

* * *

Privately, Hermione wasn't all that peeved about being confined to a Tesco; it had been a long time since she'd been shopping and she was in dire need of groceries. Even her robes hadn't been much a problem once she transfigured them into a stripey, black-and-white summer dress. So she loitered around the market for fifteen minutes and even bought a few desperately-needed veggies before Potter appeared in his fancy suit by the entrance.

She walked toward him, but he kept staring past her, as though he was lost. Or perhaps just searching for a woman in frumpy robes.

"Right here," Hermione said when she was nearly nose-to-nose with the man and he still didn't notice. Quickly, he looked down and recognized her without the robes, surprise flitted across his face quickly as he did so. Promptly, she shoved a bag of groceries into his chest. "Hold on to this for me, please?"

"Good transfiguration," he said quickly as he got a hold of her grocery bags, "didn't even notice it was you."

"Keep walking," Hermione said before the healer could continue. Potter, for his part, heeded her advice and let Hermione be, temporarily at least.

They burst out into the quiet evening, just as the shadows were beginning to lengthen. Hermione led Harry down a predictably crowded sidewalk to the nearest deserted alleyway. They found one, mercifully free of any possible street toughs or other such nuisances to the apparating magic-wielder.

"Now what?" Potter asked once they reached relative safety from any prying muggle eyes, whereupon he shrunk the bags of Hermione's groceries and put it in one of the interior pockets of his suit.

"Now you hold on to me and I'll side-along you to my flat," Hermione said, stiffly offering her arm.

Potter took hold of it and stood close. "Works for me," he said carelessly.

Hermione sighed and thought clearly thought of the hallway outside her flat. One moment and the intense high-pressure feeling of being squeezed through something the circumference of a garden hose later, and the duo stood in a pretty, cream-coloured hallway. Potter looked around at the muggle design of the floor and opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione anticipated it:

"No, I'm not breaking any secrecy laws, Potter," she said, "everyone who lives here is either a wizard or witch who decided to work in the muggle world, or a squib."

"You're neither," pointed out the healer.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "How perceptive of you," she snipped sarcastically and turned almost immediately on heel, marching toward a door at the end of the hallway marked 517. A door that just so happened to be left ajar. Abruptly, the brunette stopped and held out an arm keeping Potter from going any further.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"My door's open," she whispered back. "I remember closing and locking it when I left for St. Mungo's."

"Is it warded? Lock and key isn't much trouble for your regular wizard."

"Of course it's warded; who do you take me for?" she readied her wand.

Potter grimaced. "For god's sake, put that thing away. Are you expecting anyone?"

"No," Hermione said, unwilling to relinquish her wand.

"Is anyone keyed into your wards?"

"Yes, my father," she replied.

"Any chance it's just your dad?"

 _Dad does have a habit of popping in at the strangest times,_ Hermione thought, _and today has all the makings of the strangest day I've ever had._

"It's a possibility," she said.

"Well," Potter said, "go on in then, just make sure not to give him a heart attack; I'd hate to have to administer CPR right now."

 _Merlin, I hate him._

And sure enough, Potter was right. Hermione slunk into her flat, wand at the ready, aware of every possible threat that could be in the room at that very moment. Instead, what she found was a middle-aged man reading today's issue of the Daily Prophet, smiling softly at the moving photos in it. Potter followed in behind her, and grinned.

"Well, isn't that something," he said, which attracted the attention of the man on the couch, who beamed widely at the sight of Hermione.

"Hermione!" He called to her gaily.

Hermione smiled, but couldn't resist the small scolding he deserved. "Daddy, how many times have I told you to close and lock the door behind you? You nearly gave me a heart attack thinking someone had broken into my flat."

"Oh!" exclaimed her father. "Sorry, sweetling," he apologized and Hermione cringed at the nickname, "I keep forgetting; guess I'm just getting old. Who's this?" Hermione opened her eyes and saw her father pointing at Harry, who crossed his arms and spoke:

"Harry Potter. I'm, erm... I'm a work colleague of Hermione's."

"Oho! So this is the famous Harry Potter!" he grinned boisterously and strode up to Potter, clapping him hard on the shoulder. Or, what should have been hard: Hermione's father was a big man who often didn't know his own strength, yet Potter didn't even stumble at the push. "I've heard so much about you!"

"Have you, then?" Potter asked, and glanced quickly in her direction as he walked toward the kitchen table and resized all her grocery bags. "They're all lies, I swear."

Hermione's father let out a booming laugh. "Only if the books are all lies; Hermione's never said more than two words about you."

"Father!" Hermione exclaimed with the intent to sound scolding, but it came out more as an embarrassed meep.

"Well," said the healer smoothly as he re-entered the living room, "it's hard to live up to a legend."

"Oh, indeed! Why, the things they've said about you in the books! Is it true you slew a dragon in single combat?"

"Erm... no?"

"Oh, well, would've been a great story if it was true."

"Well," started Hermione. Her father was many things, not the least of which perceptive; he would certainly notice if Hermione didn't at least pretend Potter wasn't her friend, "it isn't _completely_ untrue, Harry here did face a dr-" she was cut off when Potter raised a quieting hand.

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

She didn't. But then, Hermione listened. And then she _heard_.

All three whirled to the door Hermione and Potter had come through, and saw the knob rattle the slightest amount. And then, she felt it:

"The wards. Someone's broken the wards."

Potter's face had gone deathly pale. "Get your father into another room," he said seriously. Something about his tone made Hermione comply immediately. She gathered her father, who stood dumbly with questions of 'What's going on, Hermione? Where are we going?'.

Hermione didn't respond, instead pushing her father away from the living room as the lock clicked and the door burst open. She whirled back and saw a green light spear toward Potter, but didn't see if it hit or not, because her father took the initiative and dragged her into her bathroom and gripped her by the shoulders as he spoke:

"What the bloody hell is going on, Hermione!?"

She struggled to go back outside, but her father kept her firmly in his arms. "Work stuff, just stay in here, I need to help Harry!"

"Absolutely not!"

" _Stupefy!_ " Harry cried outside.

Hermione knew she should have no qualms with Potter fighting whoever it was. After all, he had practically blackmailed her into bringing him to her flat. Yet, despite his annoying tendencies, he didn't deserve to get hurt or worse because she had been a fool and not done her homework well-enough.

A shouted killing curse and the tell tale ripping up of plaster from a blasting curse interrupted her thoughts, and a body thudded to the floor. Hermione whirled on her father:

"Please, daddy, I'll talk to you in a minute. Once we're all _safe_!"

Hermione's father let her go, and she burst out from the doorway, wand in hand, hoping she didn't find Potter laid out on the ground lifelessly. Her heart's wild beating immediately slowed when she found Potter straddled over the downed home intruder, arms crossed over one another and his forearms pressed into the assailant's neck. The intruder scrabbled weakly at Potter's arms. Within a few seconds, he went limp, though not to Potter's blood choke, but to the stunner Hermione cast at him.

Hermione smiled faintly at the scene. "Yet another person falls to the master martial artist Harry Potter."

"No one ever expects it," replied the healer with a shrug as he stepped off the man.

Hermione walked over next to Potter and stood over the downed assailant. "Who is this man?" she asked, inspecting his black robes and carved, skeletal mask. She lifted off the mask and saw someone she didn't recognise.

"That bloke?" Potter started. "That bloke means we have to find Ron Weasley."

"Weasley?"

"He's in danger."

"How do you know?" interrogated Hermione. " _Who is this man_?"

"The man's a Death Eater," replied Potter soberly, "he works for Lord Voldemort."

* * *

 **A/N:** Midnight Blues isn't abandoned, don't worry. I've just had this idea in my head for a while and couldn't get it out. There's a lot of questions you no doubt have, but instead of the typical chapter notes, I'll let you speculate and maybe your questions will be answered in the coming chapters. Next chapter will be from Harry's perspective.

Thanks for reading,  
Geist.


	2. Harry: Thieves Like Us

**Disclaimer:** I barely own my house, what makes you think I own this?

* * *

So Spoke the Idol God

Chapter 1:  
Harry Potter - Thieves Like Us

* * *

21 December, 2001  
Hermione Granger's Flat  
Redbridge, London, UK

* * *

Harry watched Granger swallow, and nod. There were no more justifications needed; she merely nodded and said: "Where do we find him?"

"That's the big question, innit?" Harry replied, as Granger's father stumbled from the loo and joined the two:

"Hermione," the man said sternly, "what have you gotten yourself into?"

Granger turned and stared at Harry. "I don't know, _Harry_. What _have_ I gotten myself into?"

He could lie and tell her father that nothing was wrong, but even he knew that would be a terrible fib. "I don't know. It probably has something to do with that prophecy."

"The prophecy?" asked the elder Granger.

"Can this wait?" began Harry. "There's a red-headed bloke out there who probably needs loads of help right about now."

Granger's father opened his mouth to protest, but a glance from his daughter shut him up. He folded his brawny arms and sighed piteously. Hermione smiled at her father's compliance, and, turning back to Harry, she nodded to him. "As you wish, but how are we to find Weasley?"

"I can't imagine it could be too difficult. After all, the man is a pretty well-known celebrity."

"What? As a third rate athlete?" Granger retorted archly.

Harry smiled at that. "Second-rate, apparently. Regardless, that doesn't change that we know where he might be."

"And where's that?"

"Archewood," Harry brightly replied, before he found himself faced with two blank looks. "Chudley's training grounds?"

"It's well past dark, Harry; he may not be there now," said Granger, crossing her arms in a perfect imitation of her father.

"Then we'll have to find out where he lives."

"How?"

"Well, they're bound to have his address on record there."

"You're suggesting to steal it," Granger deadpanned.

"I prefer _intel gathering_."

"Your penchant for kleptomania is more than a bit worrying," the brunette gave him a pointed look, reminding him of the accusations of stealing that had reacquainted the two earlier that afternoon.

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"Regardless," she said with a dainty sniff, "it's a _horrible_ invasion of privacy."

Harry regarded Hermione with a pointed look of his own. "Didn't seem to bother _you_ , did it?"

The brunette flushed, whether out of embarrassment or anger, Harry couldn't tell: "I-well-it was... that was _completely_ different!"

Harry didn't put any effort into a return volley, and instead kept his brow meticulously arched. "I'm sure it was," he said indulgently, to an exasperated huff from Hermione; and with that, he turned away to the unconscious man.

"What do we do with him?" asked Hermione.

"I've sent along a patronus to some friends. They'll be by to pick him up right about... now," Harry's sentence was punctuated by two loud, distinct pops in the hallway. He kept his eyes focused on Granger and her father as two sets of footsteps came to the door, and then:

"Cor, blimey, Potter, your stag raised an unholy racket on its way to us! What the bloody hell happened?"

Harry turned to face a shock of spiky pink hair and the smiling, heart-shaped face of auror Nymphadora Tonks. "I think he can tell you better than I can, Dora," he said, pointing to the downed, black-robed man.

"I hope you die," Tonks said, scowling at the nickname.

Harry grinned. "Careful what you say, you may just get your wish after all."

"Would that I could," quipped the auror, bending down to inspect the body.

"A Death Eater?" said her already-squatting companion, a dark-skinned, bald-headed man Harry knew to be Kingsley Shacklebolt, another auror.

"Yup," Harry agreed, "that's a Death Eater, all right."

"You know, they're going to kill you for telling us and not them."

"I do believe a queue's already formed," said Harry; Granger and her father snorted.

"Okay," Shacklebolt said soberly, ignoring Harry's quip, "we'll take him to the brig. Make sure to keep your name and..." he looked at the two Grangers quizzically.

"Hermione Granger," said Hermione, "this is my father, Iain."

Mr. Granger unfolded his arms and waved.

"Right, we'll keep your name, as well Mister and Miss Granger's out of the paperwork, if that suits you," Tonks said for her partner.

"Works for me," Harry replied.

Tonks smiled at him. "Are you going to be out for much longer?"

"Possibly. Lots of things happening tonight."

Tonks blinked. "Well, I won't pry, Harry, but you know you've already missed dinner last night. Try to make it this time."

"Anything for you, darling."

"Do well not to flirt with me, Potter. I don't want to have to fight off Joan of Arc, thank you very much."

"Okay, okay. I'll try to be back before heads roll. Make sure to meet at Grim, tonight. Got lots of news."

Tonks nodded resolutely, and with that, she bent low and inspected the unconscious Death Eater. "Come on, ugly, we've got a nice, cozy holding cell for you back at the Auror Department," she said, "going around, wearing Death Eater outfits, scaring the public, for shame!" she finished with a wink, as Shacklebolt levitated the limp man and guided him out of Hermione's flat.

Harry turned around and found Granger and her father wearing identical, mystified looks just as another few pops of apparition went off:

"Friends with aurors, now?" asked Hermione.

"Healer Rotaru and I do consultations on some of the wizards and witches the Auror Department picks up from time to time. Tonks and Shacklebolt are two of the best I know," Harry replied simply, and walked over to the door Tonks and Shacklebolt had left through. "Well? Coming along, Ms Granger?"

The Unspeakable nodded. "I'll be out in a minute. You go on ahead. I think I do owe my father an explanation."

Mr. Granger nodded. "You bloody well do, child."

Harry shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, heading out of the flat.

* * *

Archewood was a a ground of contrasts, thought Harry, as both he and Hermione came up on the circular training pitch. This charming pitch was nestled into an equally charming cliffside and attached to a large and most decidedly _un_ -charming administrative building painted in garish shades of burnt orange, that shined with an unnatural glow, even in the pale moonlight.

"Merlin," said Granger, squinting at the eyesore. "that building is a _literal_ sin."

"If you think that's bad, you should see the team play," Harry said with a nod. "I still can't believe Weasley is a substitute. Every one of our chasers despised going up against him whenever we played Gryffindor."

"Ah, yes, 'Weasley is Our King', and all," said the Unspeakable with fake interest in the subject, "but I suppose gallant Harry Potter, seeker extraordinaire, saved Slytherin every time with his barrel rolls and aerial pirouettes and wonky faints."

"Wronski Feints," corrected Harry automatically.

"Whatever," sniffed the Unspeakable with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Harry sighed. "Are you always like this?"

"Like what?" asked Granger, a cheshire-like smile spreading slowly across her face.

"A complete pillock?"

He received a little snort from the woman: "Why, yes, Mr. Potter. Yes, I always am."

Harry sighed again. "Such a shame. You should work on your anger. Try empathy some time."

"If you don't shut up, I'll work out my anger out on you."

"Alright, alright, calm down," Harry said with a grin, raising his hands in surrender. Granger beamed at him primly, and stepped on ahead. She was an interesting woman, horribly uncouth, but interesting all the same: Harry wasn't yet sure if he liked her or despised her with all his soul.

The came to a cobblestone path, that led to the door of the Cannons' premises, which were as hideously orange as the rest of the building.

"So," started Hermione, "what's our plan?"

"Simple, I distract them by posing as a Seeker interested in trials; while they're fawning over me, you'll go on and find out where Weasley lives."

"And how, pray tell, do I go about that?"

"Figure it out, you're a clever girl."

She side-eyed him and scowled. "Merlin, I hate you."

"Oh my poor heart, I fear I shan't ever recover," Harry delighted in seeing Hermione's frown deepen.

They pushed through the doors and into an atrium, large and circular, ringed with marble-white roman columns that looked dreadfully out of place.

"It's practically dead in here," said Harry.

"It is night, Potter," replied Hermione. "Not many people are at a quidditch training pitch at _night_."

"Tell that to Marcus Flint," muttered the black-haired healer under his breath.

An orange desk stood as the centrepiece and a pretty blonde receptionist behind it, the centrepiece of the centrepiece, as it were: "Welcome to Arche... bless my soul, _Harry Potter_!" she gasped, as a the few others, mostly night watchmen, in the atrium took notice of the exchange.

"Merlin, _someone_ in this room has soaked knickers. Three guesses who," muttered Granger under her breath.

"You?" returned Harry lowly.

"Sexually harrassing a client, then?" whispered Hermione. "I'm certain there are some laws aiming to fight against that sort of healer-patient exploitation."

"Good thing you're not my client."

"Good point," said the Unspeakable, "but if you try and touch me, I'll not hesitate to fight fire with fire."

The back of her hand brushed against his trouser leg, much too close to the groin for comfort. She observed him through amused and half-lidded eyes as Harry realised that it was an intentional move and promptly choked.

"A-are you all right, Mr. Potter?" the deskworker simpered, rushing out from behind the desk, her high heels clicking against the orange-tiled floor. "Can I help you with anything? Do you need water?" some of the onlookers mumbled to each other, perhaps wondering why Harry Potter showed up at Chudley's training grounds:

Harry regained himself just before the receptionist could place a hand on his forehead. "I'm fine, just... my chewing gum nearly went down the wrong hole," he faked a relieved smile. Granger grinned at him to the side.

Harry took it back. He definitely, completely, utterly despised Hermione Granger.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" the receptionist cried, as though she had been choking him herself.

Harry waved her away. "You've nothing to apologise for, it was my own damned fault."

The blonde blushed and smiled coquettishly at the now Man-Who-Lived. "Well, thank you. But you must excuse me, it's not every day that _Harry Potter_ of all people shows up in your lobby. And with... who are you, dear?" the woman asked Hermione, who made to speak, but Harry interrupted her:

"This is Hermione Granger, maths wunderkind and my agent," he lied easily, earning an impressed sideways glance from the unspeakable.

"Agent?" began the receptionist, "I've never heard of her."

"She's very new to the business, but believe me when I say she's the best."

"I do," said the blonde. "Wait a minute. If you're bringing an agent with you... you don't mean you're thinking of signing with us?"

"I'm keeping my options open," Harry said with an enigmatic smile; it was enough to confirm his interest to the receptionist. "Didn't President Ryker tell you I'd be in within the next few days?"

Of course, President Ryker knew nothing about Harry's "impending" visit, but the Healer assumed that even if the receptionist told the president Harry Potter had come by, the old man would be a fool to turn them back now.

"Oh. Oh, wow! Oh my! I... President Ryker said nothing about this! I'm so unprepared, oh, I must look a _complete_ fool!"

"Hardly," lied Harry once more, this time earning an amused glance from Granger.

"Oh, please, please, wait here just a moment! I'll be back in no time at all!" she raised her hands in a placating manner, and, once apparently assured Harry and Hermione would not run off, she scurried back to her desk, where papers and quills flew up and in the air in the organised chaos of a mass levitation charm.

While the receptionist was preoccupied with her own world, Harry turned to Hermione. "Don't do that again."

"Do what again?" Granger asked, sounding especially innocent.

"Fondle me like a Parisian whore."

"So old-fashioned," the unspeakable mocked, "I'm one of those "liberated" women, you know. My reputation is perfectly fine."

"I couldn't give a hippogriff's arse about your reputation, it's more my own I'm worried about," Harry murmured, more to himself than his companion.

"What does _that_ mean?"

Harry shook his head. "Never mind."

Hermione regarded him with an arched eyebrow, but soon she turned away and observed the columned decor of the atrium. "I'm actually impressed," she said lowly, changing the subject.

"At what?"

"You're quite a skilled liar."

Harry smiled in return. "That wasn't impressive," he said. "It was much too easy. Being semi-famous sometimes has _too many_ perks. People would believe me if I said I actually invented the Philosopher's Stone. Truly frustrating."

"Well, they always say that you're your own worst critic," quipped the Unspeakable.

"Come with me," the voice of the receptionist called out to them from her desk; another attractive blonde had already taken her place as receptionist. "I'll show you two around the facility. I'm Anna, by the way."

They both mumbled out greetings as Anna grinned at them and bounced away. Harry and Hermione followed her away from the atrium, past double doors that led into a long hallway, littered with the ghosts of unsuccessful teams past. There were pictures of old teams from decades beforehand, all looking a little more weathered, a little more beaten down, every year. About every fifteen years, the picture once again was filled with bright and hopeful youngsters, but then the cycle would begin anew: by the fourteenth year, each of those fresh-faced youngster had become a dour old man.

There wasn't a single championship trophy to be found among all the team pictures.

It depressed Harry, and even Granger, notorious in their Hogwarts days for being an outspoken quidditch hater, couldn't resist a pitying look for the perennially hapless club. Part of him admired Weasley's commitment to the inescapably awful club, it must have been tiring, for someone like him to lose game after game.

They turned a corner, and Harry could almost hear Hermione's eyebrows shoot up in excitement, just as they came up on the man this whole search had been for.

Ron Weasley blinked. "Potter?" he asked, his thick red eyebrows narrowing. " _Granger_?"

"Ron," Harry greeted back.

Hermione seemed content with a frosty, "Weasley."

"Erm," began Anna, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "I forgot, you know each other, don't you?"

"'Know'," said Ron with a lopsided grin, "that's a funny way to say 'bane of my existence'."

"I'm sorry?" the receptionist began with a confused pout.

"No team can be expected to have a 150 point lead before Harry Potter spots the snitch."

"It's my one talent. My eyesight is absolute shite otherwise," said Harry, winking one of his myopic eyes behind his reading spectacles.

"You can have that fixed, you know," Hermione interrupted. "In fact, I might recommend it... as your agent, of course."

"Of course," agreed Harry.

"Agent?" asked Ron, pointing from Harry to Hermione. "You? Hermione Granger, quidditch agent? For _Harry Potter_?"

"What of it?" challenged Hermione.

Ron shook his head. "I just... I didn't take you for the type."

"My interest in Quidditch is rather recent; I'm what you might call a late-bloomer for the sport," Hermione said with false cheer, "but Harry here thinks he's rather good at it. And even if I didn't believe him, well... they say the customer is always right!"

Weasley raised and eyebrow and and gave the two a strange, searching look. "Well, I've no complaints," he said at length, "we've never been particularly great with seekers and signing a another's hardly going to queer the pitch, I reckon."

Harry grinned broadly. "Great!" he said, and surreptitiously elbowed Hermione's side. The unspeakable jumped and fixed him with a baleful glare, until she saw his eyes. Suddenly, Harry detected another presence in his mind. It was Hermione, though it felt different this time. Where before she tried to burst through his shields with the mental equivalent of dynamite, she now reigned herself in and knocked, so as to be let in.

So, he let her in. With restrictions, of course. She couldn't see his memories; at best, Hermione could talk to him and he could talk back, having an internal conversation while they spoke with others externally.

 _What do you want?_ Harry heard Hermione's voice in his head as they engaged in pointless small talk with Anna the Receptionist and Ron the Keeper. _You look like you want to say something._

"Still have the Firebolt?" Ron grinned; the Firebolt was still a top notch broom, but a little outdated these days.

"Don't do much seeking these days, 'cept for a few four-a-sides," Harry replied airily, "when I fly it's mostly for speed. So I got the Bulgary Diavel S."

 _Demand that Weasley gives us the tour of Archewood,_ he gave a mental reply to the unspeakable.

"That's a hell of a broom," Ron remarked, awed. "It's probably the best racing broom in Europe! Those Italians really know their stuff."

 _How on earth am I to do that?_ said Hermione with sheer, unabashed incredulity.

Harry sighed; she really knew nothing about quidditch, did she? _You're_ _my agent, Granger, you're supposed to come in and throw your weight around. And, besides, it's not like they'll say no. The Cannons are completely desperate; you saw it yourself!_

"I'm looking for a new broom, too," continued Ron as Hermione hemmed and hawed to Harry's side.

 _Fine_ , she growled eventually, retreating from Harry's mindscape far less gently than when she came.

"So, the Red Star 12 allows for quicker roles and slant dives, which makes it the ideal keeper's broom. The only problem is that Puddlemere is really the only club that can aff-" Ron said to Harry as he began to pay full attention to their conversation once more.

"I've just had a _capital_ idea," blurted Hermione over Ron as he attempted to detail the pros and cons of a Red Star 12 broom to the newest Nimbus. "How about you, Mr. Weasley, give my client and I a tour of Archewood? I'm sure you can talk shop about brooms along the way?"

 _Wow, Granger. Subtlety, not even once._

 _Shut up,_ responded Hermione appropriately, and promptly withdrew from Harry's mind.

Ron looked taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "I mean, if that's alright with Anna..." he trailed off, looking in the direction of the receptionist. Harry usually wasn't one to have an overly-high opinion of himself, but Anna the leggy, blonde receptionist, did genuinely look put out at the prospect of not being the one to give him the full tour.

Regardless of how she might have felt, Anna nodded. "If it's okay with you, Mr. Weasley, then it's okay with me. After all, I think you can give Mr. Potter a better tour than I ever could."

The redheaded keeper gave her a charming grin. "Thanks Anna, I'll try not to break them."

The blonde receptionist nodded bouncily. "Be sure not to," she said with a flirty smirk, and sauntered back to her desk in the atrium.

"She's great, isn't she?" Ron remarked, indiscreetly staring at the blonde's backside.

"Who, the receptionist?" Harry asked, taking note of a halfway open door that led to an empty office.

"Yeah, Anna. New here, she just started a couple of weeks ago, but Merlin..."

"Yes, yes," snipped Hermione, "she's dishy, we can all see that," she then turned to Harry, "Potter?"

Harry promptly grabbed Weasley by the shoulder and dragged him into the empty office; Hermione followed close behind.

"Bloody hell, Potter!" cried the redhead. "What in blazes do you think you're doing?"

Hermione cast an incarcerous on the redhead, binding him tight to a plush executive chair behind the office desk.

Harry cast the counterspell almost as quickly. "Merlin, _what is it_ with you and ropes?"

"It's so they stay in one place," Hermione snipped back, recasting the spell.

Harry once more dispelled it. "It doesn't work very well, then," he flashed Hermione a smug grin, not-so-subtly reminding her of how he had bested her when she ambushed him in his office.

The unspeakable scowled and waved her wand once more. "You were _lucky_ , not good."

"And you're much too arrogant for a person who's done nothing but lose all night," Harry growled, dispelling it for the final time.

The brunette Unspeakable opened her mouth for a retort, but Ron had enough, or Harry supposed he did, because he stood up and bellowed, "What the bloody hell are you two talking about!?" at the bickering duo. Both turned to him nearly immediately:

"Listen closely, Ron," said Harry, sobering up quickly, and then nodded to Hermione.

"Weasley, I'm a-" she paused, and looked as though her throat locked up. Coughing once or twice, she cleared her throat and began again. "Ronald, I am a-" but her mouth clamped shut once more, and she let out an exasperated huff, as Ron looked more confused than ever before. "Oh, hell! Potter, I can't get it out. Do it for me?"

"She's an Unspeakable," Harry said quickly, not really caring if divulging that information threatened Granger's job or not.

Ron stared back. "And?"

"And three nights ago, a prophecy was stolen from the Department of Mysteries," replied Hermione.

Ron glared; his bushy red brows furrowed. " _And_?"

"And apparently that prophecy concerned the three of us," Harry finished for Hermione, who only seemed to be getting annoyed by Weasley's behavior.

"So what?" said Ron. "You think _I_ stole it?"

"No," said Harry, right at the same time Hermione said, "Yes."

"Which one is it?" Ron growled.

"Don't listen to Granger, she's an idiot," Harry deftly avoided the swat that came at his shoulder from an outraged Hermione, "I already know you didn't steal the prophecy, because you probably didn't even know it existed until we just told you about it, right?"

Ron nodded slowly. "Right."

"Welcome to the club," said Harry, smiling. "I didn't know about either until Granger over here barged into my office and tried to mind-rape me."

"It was _not_ mind-rape!" Hermione squeaked, affronted.

"Sure it wasn't," Harry replied with a patronising look. Hermione's face took on that familiar shade of volcanic red, indicating to Harry a massive blow-up was coming, but the saint that was Ronald Weasley interrupted and, thus, saved his life:

"Not that this isn't wildly entertaining," the redhead said dryly, "but what the _hell_ are you two talking about? I'm guessing it's not a spot in the reserves with me, is it?"

Harry sighed and explained more slowly. "No, I love quidditch, but as a hobby; I'm quite happy with my job, thank you. But Ms. Granger here was dispatched to find out who stole the prophecy we just mentioned. And since we're the three in the prophecy, well..."

"It had to be one of us that stole it," Ron finished for him.

"Right," replied Harry, "Granger didn't steal it, or she wouldn't have come rampaging around St. Mungo's looking for me. I didn't steal it, that much Granger can confirm. And you just said you knew nothing about it."

"Okay," started Ron, "where are you going with this?"

"Because there was a fourth person," Harry said.

"Who?" asked the redhead, folding his arms. Hermione nervously glanced Harry's way before she answered:

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," she said, rather ominously.

Ron paled at the name, but he seemed to plaster a too-bright grin on his lips. "You're having me on, right? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead. He died twenty years ago. Hell, Potter, you were the one who killed him!"

The little office fell silent.

"Not entirely," said Harry quietly, at length. Both Hermione and Ron whirled on him:

" _What_? What do you mean, _not entirely_?" Ron whispered, his face gone pale as chalk. Hermione, predictably, looked annoyed. Harry surmised it was the divide between having been brought up in the wizarding world and being a muggleborn. Ron had heard the stories, spoken to the survivors, and he was afraid; all Hermione had ever heard were a few hushed lines about a supposedly dead man, so she was annoyed.

But while the cultural divide between muggle and wizard was a fascinating academic topic for Harry to ponder, it wasn't important right then, and both Hermione and Ron looked at him expectantly, though for very different reasons:

"I mean I didn't kill him entirely."

"I got that much," Hermione growled, "now do us a favour and stop speaking in riddles."

Harry sighed, and turned around, casting a few of the diagnostic spells he knew to check if there were tracking or listening charms of any kind in the room. When he found none, after a fairly involved scan, he turned back to Hermione and Ron:

"What you're about to hear _cannot_ leave this room. Am I clear?" Ron nodded quickly; Hermione looked a little suspicious, but eventually moved her head downward the scantest bit. "Good. It's a little known secret that Voldemort-" Ron and Hermione both flinched, "-didn't die after he tried to kill me. His body was destroyed, yes, but sometimes an angry soul is too powerful to simply be tethered by whether their body is alive or dead."

"So what?" asked Hermione, folding her arms. "He's a... wraith of some kind?"

"I suppose," replied Harry, "you could call him wraith, fed solely on anger and a desire for revenge. Though rumour has it he's not so much a wraith anymore."

"Then what is he?" Ron asked.

"What he is or isn't, is not important right now. What is important is that earlier this evening, a Death Eater, who works for Voldemort, attacked Granger and I in her flat. We dispatched him easily, but it's quite a coincidence that a prophecy goes missing with her name, my name, and Voldemort's on it, and then a Death Eater pokes in. And since _you're_ in that prophecy, too, I have a feeling someone will be coming after you soon enough. Which is why we should get out of here as quickly as possible."

"And go where?" this time Hermione asked the question.

"I have a place where we can all stay for the time being," Harry replied shortly.

Ron looked unmoved by the story. "Well, that's great and all, but I don't really believe you and I'm going to go home," he stood, only to be blocked by both Harry and Hermione.

"Weasley," said Potter. "Look at me. Do I have any reason to lie to you? And even if I did, does Granger have one? We barely even know each other, let alone go around pulling pranks on random schoolmates together." Ron opened his mouth, and then shut it in favour of a very contemplative expression:

"I mean, yeah, I guess you don't have a reason to lie, but you must admit the whole thing sounds really bloody farfetched-" his rebuttal was cut off by a very loud, very feminine scream, in the direction from which Harry and Hermione had come.

"What the hell was that?" Hermione gasped, alarmed.

"It came from the atrium," Ron affirmed, and, quite suddenly, a look of terror flitted across his face. "Oh, _no_ ," he murmured, and took off running, bolting off before either Harry or Hermione could stop him or tell him to slow down.

"Merlin," Hermione sighed, her easily annoyed nature once more rearing its head. "Can we just let him die? Pretty please?"

Harry shook his head.

"I said 'please'!" she cried with mock sincerity.

"Unfortunately," said Harry, "I think we might need him, if this prophecy means anything at all."

"Damn," cursed Hermione with a soft smile.

Drawing their wands, the two followed after Ron in the direction of the atrium. They found him crouched over a fallen figure. It was Anna, the leggy blonde receptionist that had left them only five minutes earlier. Around her, the watchmen lay strewn about the atrium.

"You see anyone?" Harry asked the redhead.

"No," Ron replied, "well, yes if you're counting the stiffs. No, if you're not."

"Are they alright?" Hermione asked Ron quickly as she and Harry strode up to the redhead.

"I think so," replied Ron. "They were already down by the time I got here."

Harry bent low and took the woman's pulse. "Been stunned," he said, before moving onto one of the motionless guards. "Him, too. Looks like our killer is trying to avoid collateral."

Hermione fixed a strange look on the healer. "Why would a Death Eater care about not killing civilians?"

"I don't know," said Harry, "bigot with a conscience?"

The Unspeakable raised an eyebrow as she trained her wand around the room. "What aren't you telling me, Potter?"

"My favourite pizza, my life story, my favourite movie, whether I prefer bovril or prawn sandwiches, my waist size, the hand I hold it with- _Expecto Patronum!_ -I don't tell you a lot of things, Granger; I hope you won't hold it against me," said the healer as a silver stag burst from his wand and galloped out from the atrium.

"You are an imbecile," Hermione said drily.

"I do try," quipped Harry. "We should have some friends coming along in a moment. Now, to make sure we don't get killed in that moment."

"Well, if someone came here looking for me, they can't have gotten far," Ron said, standing up and fingering his own wand.

"If I were a betting woman," agreed Hermione, "I'd say they're still in this room."

That did a particularly good job of heightening everyone's awareness, particularly for Ron, Harry thought. They bumped back-to-back in an odd, three-pronged triangle, watching and waiting for any sign of movement, any at all, that might have looked suspicious.

It came very suddenly, when Harry had his back turned to the receptionist's desk and faced the hideous orange doors to the complex. He heard Hermione shout and someone drag him downward. A purple curse flew over their heads and slammed into a wall, reflecting harmlessly. Turning to the side to thank his would-be saviour, Harry found himself staring at a grinning Ron.

"Nice reflexes," praised the Healer lightly.

"Ah, no need to flatter, mate. It just comes natural," said Ron roguishly, before he scarpered off to were Hermione was, ducked behind the receptionist's desk. Harry, for his part, scrambled on hands and knees to one of the pillars ringing the atrium and pressed his back to it.

He poked his head out, but had to stumble back behind the pillar, because the moment he did, a spell flew his way from up ahead, and slightly to the right.

"Good," he murmured quietly to himself. _I've got you now_.

Harry drew back into the cover of the pillar. Whispering a few words, he tapped his wand to his head and felt something wet and cold run down from the crown of his head and slide down his chest and arms, to the tips of his feet. It felt something like someone had cracked a very viscous egg over his skull.

But, the uncomfortable wet feeling soon receded and Harry knew the disillusionment charm had worked when his pressed against the wall and could only see a transparent, camouflaged sleeve where his arm should have been.

He moved. Harry passed Hermione and Ron, both of whom held a hushed conversation among themselves, and stalked over to where the spell had originated from: behind one of the pillars on the opposite side of the room. Tiptoeing toward the column with his wand trained forward, he slowly crept around the face of the pillar.

Behind it, Harry found nothing but air.

 _Damn_ , Harry thought as he made a quick retreat back to where Hermione and Ron were, and crouched next to them.

"Six o'clock," he whispered from behind them, causing the two to jump, engrossed as they were in their conversation.

"Merlin, Potter!" Hermione gasped. "You near sent me into cardiac arrest!"

Harry, in response, tapped both of their heads with his wand and watched as they too, turned transparent against the circular desk. "The other bloke might be running around with a disillusionment charm as well. We should move."

"What? And leave all those people here with a bloke who may or may not be, by your own words, a bloody _Death Eater_!?" Ron growled under his breath.

"It's taken care of," Harry replied. "Help is on the way. Our only job is making sure we don't die in the next five minutes. So get up and _move_."

If Ron or Hermione had any objections, Harry couldn't tell, he could only tell when they stood up and made to follow him. Harry almost did the same, until he saw a green light sailing straight for Hermione. There was no time to think; he grabbed Hermione about the legs and pulled her down atop him. Unfortunately, she also tripped up Ron, who also went crashing atop Harry. They ended up an unceremonious pile on the tiled floor, Ron at the top, Hermione sandwiched in the middle, and Harry crushed at the bottom.

A laugh came from somewhere behind the desk. "Disillusionment charm?" came a disembodied voice, neither masculine or feminine. "Clever, but not enough by far."

Hermione rolled around atop Harry and beat at Ron's chest. "Get-off-me-you- _lummox_!" she said, enunciating each word with a swat, and eventually heaved the tall redhead off her. "Who are you!?" she yelled out into the ether as Ron scooted back, rubbing his chest.

"Just a messenger," replied the voice.

"A messenger? A messenger from whom?" Hermione challenged, rolling off Harry and ducking back behind the table.

"He can see through the disillusionment charm?" Ron murmured quietly to Harry. "How else could they have shot a perfect curse at Granger?"

Harry sighed. "I dunno. Never assume things will come easy where Voldemort is involved."

Both Ron and Hermione flinched.

"Well, we can confirm it now, can't we?" Hermione snipped, as she awaited the answer from the intruder.

"From no-one," the words came from very far away, as Harry scrabbled back to cover. Silence fell around the atrium for one long moment that seemed to stretch out to infinity.

And then, "Just a messenger from no-one."

It came from right behind the ragtag trio.

Perhaps he came so close with the intent to frighten, to really lay it on thick before delivering the killing blow, or blows, in this case. In hindsight, Harry decided, he did it because he was simply a moron. Whispering right behind the trio gave all three a very clear idea of where the man was: Harry blindly reached out and grabbed a fistful of invisible robe:

"Granger!" he shouted back at Hermione, who was the only one with her wand at the ready. She fumbled with the wand for a moment, nearly giving their assailant enough time to get away, but Ron reached over Harry and sent a wild haymaker in the general direction of the spectre; there was a fierce jitter in the fabric, indicating to Harry that Ron had at least gotten a hit on the invisible man. All Ron's work was vindicated when Hermione had finally regained control of her wand and pointed it at the thin air in front of Harry, tip glowing red:

" _REDUCTO_!" she screamed, and proceeded to send one of the most powerful blasting hexes Harry had ever seen right into the figure Harry had been holding. The fabric was yanked from his grasp and a dark figure went was sent flying some distance off into one of the pillars. Time froze for a moment as their assailant collided into one of the columns, and then, the body fell limply to the floor, in a heap of black robes.

Harry readied his own wand. " _Stupefy_ ," he said, stunning the figure for good measure. All three moved slowly toward the figure, as though he would get up at any point and start firing off unforgivables at any moment. Reaching the body, Harry pulled off the mask, revealing a feminine face he didn't quite recognise. Shaking his head, he crouched down and pulled up the sleeve of her left arm.

"Yup, Death Eater. Dark Mark confirms it."

" _Goddamn_. Death Eaters, here..." Ron remarked behind him, trailing off.

Hermione shook her head. "What on earth is the world coming to?"

"Hell if I know. Though _that_ was a nice shot, Granger," Ron whistled low at the downed, figure.

"Oh, well, it's... erm..." Hermione trailed off, clearly unused to receiving compliments.

"It's all in the reflexes," said Harry with a smile, recalling her fumbling episode.

The unspeakable arched a brow. "Are you mocking me, Healer Potter?"

"A little, yeah."

Her nerves likely too shot to take a offence to it, Hermione laughed instead. It was a soft, tinkling giggle that proved to be deceptively infectious, and the three were soon tittering like a pack of schoolgirls together, which only stopped once several cracks rang throughout the air:

"Looks like the cavalry arrived too late to matter at all," Harry said wryly.

"Harry! Are you in here? Are you alright!?" A very familiar voice cried from the entrance of the building.

Smiling, Harry stood up. "And here I thought this would be the day when you lot would finally come to my rescue. Tsk, tsk. Shame on me. Should know better by now, shouldn't I, Sirius?"

Across the room stood Sirius Black, Harry's godfather, former convicted criminal, and holder of perhaps one of the most charming grins of all time. "Harry. Glad to see you're still capable taking care of yourself."

Harry's smile broke into a full-blown grin; behind his godfather were Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt; one of Harry's former professors and a man who seemingly owned only the shabbiest of robes, Remus Lupin; an odd man with a fake eye, a wooden stump for a leg, and a very shifty-eyed look, that Harry knew to be Alastor Moody; and last, but certainly not least, with his piercing blue eyes that seemed to belong to a much younger man than his long, silvery beard suggested he was, was Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts and, in many ways, Harry's mentor.

"Oh, well," sighed Harry theatrically to Sirius, "I suppose I can't take all the credit. I have these two to thank for at least some help," he bent low and pulled both Ron and Hermione up to their feet, punctuating the action with a hardy clap to the shoulder of both.

Dumbledore stepped forward, and Ron seemed to take notice of the headmaster for the first time, though Hermione had been staring at him nearly since the old wizard had phased into the atrium.

"Professor?" Ron questioned.

"Mr. Weasley," greeted the headmaster with one of his usual, knowing smiles, "Miss Granger."

"What on earth are you doing _here_ , of all places, Professor?" asked Hermione.

Dumbledore's eyes smiled more than his mouth did. "Why, I'm helping young Mister Potter, here, Miss Granger."

The brunette's brows furrowed in confusion. "Why would you, of all people, be helping Potter?"

The headmaster finally turned to Harry. "Have you yet told them?" Harry immediately knew what he was talking about; he was careful to not let it slip in casual conversation.

"Not in as many words," Harry replied truthfully. "But it needs to happen. Boy, have the three of us got a story for the Order tonight."

In good cheer, the elderly headmaster smiled. "Well then," he said, a twinkle in his eye, "it appears we've all the need to travel to London tonight. I shall take Ms. Granger and Misters and Potter and Weasley with me, and it would be best if Remus came along as well. I will leave this... ahem... _scene_ in the capable hands of Britain's finest Aurors."

Sirius nodded to Dumbledore and then turned to Harry, giving him a look so as to say "We'll speak later". Remus, the moustachioed man with the threadbare robes and thinning brown hair, perked up and padded over to the headmaster and shared a wink with his three former students.

"Alright then, Remus?" Harry asked, as he and his former professor began moving toward the exit.

"Alright, Harry?" Remus returned in a manner that seemed natural only to other Englishmen. They continued walking for a moment more until they reached the entrance doors to Archewood, and promptly realised no-one else walked with them. Remus was the first to do a double-take and turn around, and Harry, noting his compatriot's sudden turn, did the same, finding Weasley and Granger rooted to where they stood.

Thankfully, Dumbledore had a very soothing voice that could convince even the most stubborn to do his bidding; Harry supposed he would have made a very dangerous Dark Lord.

"Come along now, Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger," he said calmly, beckoning the two forward. "We've all a long night ahead of us, and Harry tells me you've a story to tell. As a matter of principle, I never tell a story on an empty stomach, and I'm sure you think the same."

The mention of food alone was enough to get Ron on board, though Hermione looked a mite conflicted still. Harry quirked his head and sent a questioning glance her way, and Ron remained to her side, giving her puppy looks. Eventually, and with a very heavy sigh, she relented. "Very well, take us wherever you wish," she said to Dumbledore.

His wish for food seemingly granted, Ron gave her a dazzling smile, and promptly scampered toward Harry.

"Look at you, all a-flutter," said the healer with a raised brow, "weren't you the one who was denouncing this all as bollocks not twenty minutes ago?"

"I still think it's bollocks," Ron replied cheekily, "but you've got to admit: there's something rather _exciting_ about this whole thing!"

"Oh, Merlin, Potter," Hermione murmured as she came up to the other two at more measured pace. "I think we've created an adrenaline addict."

"How wrong you are, Granger! I've _always_ been an addict," Ron returned once more, the very picture of boyish charm.

"Come along, now," chided Dumbledore, "we must make haste; I do adore Mrs. Potter's bouillabaisse. A sentiment, I'm sure, that Harry already shares and that the rest of you will by dawn."

Harry did very much agree, his mouth watered just thinking about it.

Ron blinked. "Mrs. Potter?" he asked, exchanging confused glances with Hermione, but Dumbledore and Remus had already opened the door into the winter night and Harry didn't have the heart to leave the old man waiting in the cold.

"Coming along, then?" He called out to the two lagging behind.

* * *

"The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at..." Hermione began, eyes focused on the small scrap of parchment in her hands, "number 12 Grimmauld Place?" she looked up at the houses in front of her. "But there's only Number 11 and 13 her... oh, my word."

Harry gave a wry smile at her, reminded of the first time he'd seen that house balloon up from the ground in between two fully sized homes, stretching until the space between could accommodate another home. Ron wasn't very surprised, as he expected the pureblood wouldn't be, but Granger's reaction was a treat. Now he finally understood why people always found his reaction to new forms of magic so amusing: the barely undisguised wonder looked a bit childish on a woman as notoriously mature-beyond-her-years as Hermione Granger.

"Shall we go in, then?" he asked. Dumbledore nodded and Ron faked a little, girlish curtsy, as if to tell Harry to go first. Remus merely watched the others with a good-natured expression and Hermione looked as though she had a hundred questions ready to tumble out of her mouth. The headmaster seemed to sense the former Ravenclaw's excitement and raised a hand:

"Questions once we're inside, Miss Granger, my dear."

Hermione, who perhaps hadn't gotten over seeing Dumbledore as her old headmaster, clamped her mouth shut immediately. Harry gave the group one last once-over before heading up to the door, where Dumbledore let them in.

They opened the door to bedlam.

The first thing Harry heard was the shrieking of a woman. The second thing he heard was the shrieking of a child.

He cringed.

The woman he knew all-too-well. Sirius's mother, a vile, odious woman, by her son's description, had taken it upon herself to be painted and have her portrait hung in the entrance hallway to the very unwelcoming 12 Grimmauld Place. She now took it upon herself to scream every opportunity she got, which was always, if the inhabitants of the house were ever too loud, or strayed too close to the portrait. The only thing that seemed to work was draping a curtain over her every time she got worked up. But it was truly a chore. But it was a necessity, given the filth she spewed.

Thankfully, Albus Dumbledore was the hero they needed at that moment. "Oh, that won't do," he said, clucking his tongue and shaking his head at the portrait's bulging, red eyes, pale face and the rant she had been on that had increasingly turned into incoherent shouting and growling. He waved his wand in several complex movements, and the drapes flew over the portrait, reducing the incoherent shouting to muffled, incoherent shouting.

That was one batch of shrieking done with, now where was the other?

"Wonderful," said Harry, sighing, "was that the "blood traitors, mudbloods, and mutants" tirade again?"

Someone snorted off to the side. "Is it ever anything else?" And then, they were introduced to the second source of screaming. There, standing on the landing of the stairs, was the predictably beautiful Tracey Davis carrying a squalling babe in her arms.

Harry gave her a rueful smile. "Alright then, Trace?"

"Potter, come and get this she-devil away from me," she growled. Harry, still smiling, complied and headed up the stairs, scooping up the crying infant from the woman's arms into his own. Nearly immediately, the child stopped crying and looked up at him with sparkling green eyes. She babbled softly and reached out a fat little hand to rub Harry's stubbled chin.

Tracey wasn't amused. "Oh, so you're a little viper when Aunt Tracey's carrying you, but when your father comes 'round, it's daddy's little girl, is it? I see how it is."

"Mmhmm," agreed Harry, "Chloë's a proper little lady, isn't she?" Chloë happily babbled some more, speaking some unintelligible language with her father. "Thanks for looking after her, Trace."

"Don't go thanking me yet," snipped Tracey, "I hear your wife's in a _towering_ mood."

"What have I gone and done this time?"

"Oh, I dunno, forced her, as well as the _rest of us_ —on a _Friday_ , mind you" Tracey added with a little bit of unnecessary venom, "to relax in this hovel for a night when we could be preparing for Christmas week?"

"As opposed to what, sitting in a cramped flat in _Sunderland_? I'm sure she _really_ misses the Midlands air."

"I'd rather live in a shoebox than spend any amount of time in a house whose previous owner was deep into house elf taxidermy," she pointed downward to the hall of decapitated house elf heads. Somewhere behind him, Harry heard Hermione gasp and Remus launch into a frantic explanation of the history of the house. "Speaking of which, why do you even live in Sunderland? Move to a city that actually matters."

"Tracey, darling, I love you, but if you're about to knob off the home counties again, I will punch you in the gob."

Tracey's mouth snapped shut. Then, it opened again:

"In any case," she continued, as if the aside about Sunderland had never happened, "don't take my word for it, go on to the kitchen, Harry. Let's see where your gibes be after that."

With that, Tracey huffed, turned around and stomped up the stairs, leaving Harry to shake his head at her retreating form:

"Why am I even friends with her?" he murmured to himself, "you still love me, don't you, dear?" he asked the baby in his arms, but found her dozing off. "Traitors, the lot of you," he cursed, and then looked up to find an interesting mix of emotions in the frozen group in front of him: knowing amusement in Dumbledore's eyes, unbounded pride in Remus's, barely restrained surprise in Hermione's, and naked confusion in Ron's:

"Wait a minute!" Ron started. "You have a— _ow_!" he finished with a cry as Hermione stamped on his foot.

"Don't be _rude_ , Weasley," she snipped, and immediately turned to Harry. "You're married?"

"That's the _exact_ same thing I was going to say!" Ron exclaimed, incredulous; Hermione ignored him.

"Erm, yeah, I guess," replied Harry. "For nearly two years, now."

Ron's reaction was one of surprise. "Weird, would've thought we'd have heard of it by now, given how the Prophet never shuts up about you."

"It was a small affair," Harry shrugged. "No journalists allowed."

Hermione's reaction, unlike Ron, confused Harry at first: she pinkened and started rubbing the back of her hand against her trousers vigorously. Harry eyed her questioningly, but then remembered Hermione's bold "fight fire with fire" episode, and grinned:

"I _did_ warn you not to," he said smugly.

"Yes, after the fact," sneered Hermione, wiping her hand all the harder.

"Eh, well then, lesson learned: don't fondle strangers you bleeding nympho," Harry merrily announced, to a comically scandalized look from Ron, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and be castigated by the old ball and chain."

He skipped down the stairs to Ron's mocking tune of: "Ooo, frost queen Hermione Granger, a _scarlet woman_! Oh, tomorrow's Prophet will be _sordid_!"

And Harry left the hallway to Hermione's snappish reply. "If you call me 'scarlet woman' one more time, _Ronald Weasley_ , so help me Merlin, I will turn you into a toad."

And so he stalked past the dining room, which he knew would be packed with people tonight, down another flight of stairs to the kitchen, and immediately the air thickened with the rich aroma of wine, cheeses, and the riviera. Several pots sat on the burner, being stirred by self-moving wooden spoons. Over at the kitchen table sat an all-too-familiar figure, reading a book Harry didn't quite recognise. She perked up from behind her book; her senses had always been finely honed, and a dueling champion like her could never be taken by surprise.

So, that's how Harry found himself staring in her cerulean orbs, betraying nothing. "Husband," she greeted neutrally. Even now, Harry was struck by her beauty. Long, flaxen-blonde hair, luminous blue eyes, a face constructed almost entirely of pleasing angles, as though fashioned by a renaissance sculptor: she was the picture of beauty, and quite often made Harry feel a bit like an ogre who had kidnapped a princess.

"Fleur," Harry answered, "you wouldn't believe the day I've had."

His wife, angel that she was, didn't look particularly pleased. "Smart."

"What?"

Fleur ran a hand through her long, blonde hair and replied with that Parisian accent of hers. "Smart. It is smart of you to have brought my daughter with you. Now I cannot hex you where you stand."

Harry shrugged, attempting a disarming smile that seemed to work on every woman but her.

She nudged out another chair from the kitchen table with her foot. "I have time," she replied with a wry. "I should like to know what it is that made us come to this... this.. Grim-old _place_."

 _Damn_ , cursed Harry internally, _Tracey was right._

He sat down, hoping Ron and Hermione were at least faring better than he was.

* * *

A/N: Chapter 2 done, heading back to finish up the next chapter of Midnight Blues after this. Next chapter will be from Ron's perspective, and while you've already met some, you'll get to meet some more of the friends Harry's made while not being being around Ron or Hermione, as well as the new-look Order of the Phoenix. Next chapter will be from Ron's perspective.

Chapter Notes:

"It's all in the reflexes": A slight reference to Big Trouble in Little China. If you don't know what Big Trouble in Little China is, you can go fuck yourself. And then go watch it afterward, because it's fantastic.

Harry's tone shift: You might wonder why Harry's much more merry in this chapter than the last; it's explained away by the simple fact that Harry isn't at work.

Fleur's accent: Will not be phonetically spelled out as it is in canon, because "'E eez a leetle boi" is annoying as hell to write.

Sunderland: Harry and Fleur live in Sunderland, which is why I said Harry's accent was a mix of Londoner and Mackem (the Sunderland accent/dialect), from Hermione's perspective last chapter.

Home Counties: The counties in and around London.

Married with Kids: If you were hoping for a steamy romance between any two members of the trio (or perhaps a ménage à trois), let me quickly disabuse you of that notion: I did this precisely to head off any pairing questions involving the trio, because I want to use this fic to focus on the three purely as friends, not as the complex weave they would become if R/Hr or H/Hr or some weird love triangle happened. Now, Ron's too much of a happy-go-lucky playboy to ever fit with ultra-serious Hermione and Harry's out of the contest because he's already got a family. As for why I chose Fleur over the many Hogwarts girls nearer to Harry's age, you'll have to wait to find out.

Thanks for reading,  
Geist.


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